Without Ruth

I can't leave the house anymore. I got rid of my phone last week. I couldn't handle the incessant gossip about me. My house has become a safe haven. The only place that I am free to exist without constant scrutiny.

It's been a year since Ruth was killed. A year since my baby girl was stolen from this world by a man who will suffer none of the consequences. Instead, I am doomed to spend eternity locked up in this house, in utter silence. Her music will never blast at a volume that I will have to tell her to turn down again, and the kitchen will never smell too strongly of cinnamon from her french toast.

It's been a year since I took her out to dinner. It was her tenth birthday- finally double digits! She was so excited that day, she spent the entirety of our breakfast bragging about how old she was now- she was practically an adult! I remember so clearly looking on in admiration as she called her mother after breakfast, telling her how excited she was about her new age.

Her poor mother.

She wasn't supposed to make it. Her mother and I were told early on in the pregnancy that Ruth was destined to die in the first few months. But the months kept coming, and we watched our miracle baby overcome every single obstacle with pride. Her mother tried so hard to make sure that everything was perfect for our perfect baby; hell we both had two jobs there for the first few years, just to make ends meet and cover hospital bills. Despite us not being rich, we still made sure that Ruth went to bed every night with a full belly, and love in her heart.

I'm standing at the door to Ruth's bedroom now, and I can so clearly see her in bed, cradling her favorite stuffed animal, and her mother reading her favorite bedtime story. I can hear her mother's voice, so clearly and so eloquently making Dr. Seuss sound like a beautiful song. I can see Ruth nodding off to sleep, so calm and content, and her mother coming to the door, before giving me a kiss and walking with me back to our own bedroom.

Her mother shipped off overseas when Ruth was nine. We knew it was going to be hard, but she wanted to fight for our country, to prove to herself that she had the guts to carry through with it and to put more money in our account. I took up the helm of father and mother, making her breakfast and lunch for school, rides any time she needed them, I even tried to read her bedtime stories, although she and I both knew I was nowhere close to a good storyteller as her mother was. And Ruth was such a trooper through all of it. I quit my job to be a full-time dad, to make sure that she had everything she wanted and needed. I felt as if I had finally found my perfect career.

I knew 10 had to be a big birthday party. June always had an affinity for adventure, coming home with scabbed knees and bruises from climbing. We were going to have her birthday party at a rock-climbing center, the perfect place for my perfect adventurous child. But I was selfish, I wanted a birthday lunch with her first.

The Good Times Cafe. Her favorite place for hot chocolate and deli sandwiches. She had put on her best dress, and I had helped her comb her hair the way she wanted it. I even put on a suit, it was our day and no one could tell us otherwise.

Our last conversation was about what she wanted to achieve in the next ten years. She wanted to climb Mount Everest, she wanted to start writing books, helping people out whenever she could. My daughter was one of the kindest and sweetest people I had ever met. We daydreamed about the day that we would stand on the top of the highest mountain together as a family. Her mother and I holding her hands as we overlooked the entire world, together.

My therapist told me recently that I need to walk through the events of the day, to fully process it. Try as I might, thinking about the events afterward never fails to throw me into a pit of despair and self-loathing.

We left the cafe at 12:36. We were talking about who all could attend the party that night- and what she was hoping to receive as presents from them. We had parked in the ally- neither of us wanted to deal with the parking in the city. As we were walking to my car, a man wearing full black, including black gloves and a black ski mask ran up to us.

My therapist said it helps to number the events in order, to make them sound more factual, and less like a story that will make me fall apart.

1) I saw the gun first. He was holding it in his right hand.

2) I pulled Ruth behind me immediately. She still hadn't fully realized what he was doing.

3) He started yelling at me, telling me I needed to give him all the cash I had on me.

4) I told him in as calm of a voice as possible, that I did not have any cash on me. All I had was my card, which I gave to him, with the rest of my wallet. It had my favorite yearbook picture of Ruth in it.

5) He said it wasn't enough, that I needed to give him the keys to my car. He stepped towards me, and I stepped back. I stepped on Ruth's foot, which caused her to yelp in pain, and step out from behind me.

6) In a moment of pure fear, the robber assumed I had been hiding another adult behind me. All he saw was a quick movement of another human from behind me. All I saw was the gun shoot.

7) Ruth-

I always have to stop at number seven. I open the door, and lay in her bed, quietly sobbing, trying to gain the strength to finish the list. I grab her favorite stuffed animal and look at it in the eyes as I speak the rest of the list.

"Seven. Ruth falls to the ground. The robber realizes it's a child he's just shot, and immediately takes off. He drops the gun on the ground"

"Eight. I kneel on the ground, holding on to her, crying as she looks up at me. The bullet went right through her neck."

"Nine. I hold her. I promise her it's going to be alright, that she'll be okay. In the midst of everything, I forget to call 911. Someone in the area hears the gunshot, and calls the police."

"Ten. I hold her-"

I can't do it. I can't say it out loud. I can't speak about watching the life leave my daughter's eyes as the sirens blare in the background. I can't decimate her room with that knowledge.

She was my baby. She was my everything. And in one moment- one wrong move, my entire world left this earth.

They buried her in her birthday dress. Her mother was overseas when she found out and came home at once. My parents flew in for the funeral. I couldn't even go. I couldn't watch my little girl get buried in the ground, when she was supposed to be out in the world, finding herself, making new adventures every day.

News travels fast. Even though the police cleared me almost immediately, the rumors were relentless. She always had bruises- I must have been abusing her for some time. The gun didn't have my fingerprints on it, but that must have been because I had been planning it for some time, I had grown sick of my own child and hated my wife for leaving me to be her sole provider. I did it out of pure spite, they said. That's why I didn't call the police myself. A man who killed his own daughter because he couldn't stand her.

It's the perfect story. No loose ends in anyone's minds, and a clear person to blame. The robber is still out there and will have to live with what he did forever.

And I have to live without Ruth.

I go into the kitchen, the blinds are drawn so I can evade the protesters who gather every once in a while for me. I play her favorite songs to drown out the voices yelling at me outside.

"Murderer!"

I play the music louder and sit down in front of the birthday cake I had purchased.

"Child killer!"

I light eleven candles for her, and sit there, looking at the flames flickering, tears streaming down my face.

Happy birthday, my precious baby girl.

Happy birthday Ruth, your daddy loves you.